“My Pussy, My Rack: Unplugged From The Iron!”
Do you recall the story of Atlas, the titan burdened with the heft of the celestial sphere on his iron-clad shoulders? Well, this past spring, your humble narrator, much like that old titan, decided to shrug. However, in my case, the shrug was less about abandoning celestial responsibilities, more about taking a step back from the sweet grind of bodybuilding.
But, hear me out, my fellow iron worshippers. I didn’t hang up my gym gloves to rest on a pile of glazed donuts; instead, I traded the dumbbells for the dolphin kick and swapped the gym mat for the pool deck. This past spring, my cathedral was the aquatic center, and my sermon: rehabilitative exercise and swimming. Yes, you read it right. I was on a body-building sabbatical. Very unusual for yours truly.
The recent passing of my esteemed mentor, a sports psychologist, has deeply saddened me. He was more than just a mentor to me; to many of us who felt lost and adrift, he was a beacon, a guiding figure who filled the role of a father, providing guidance, wisdom, and unyielding support. In the quiet solitude of my runs, the steady rhythm of my footfalls gives way to tears, an emotional release as cathartic as the journey itself.
His memory will be carried with every parry, every thrust, every dodge. His legacy continues not just in my heart, but in every calculated strike.
Allow me to highlight this… The weight rack, with its rhythmic clink, has often served as an unexpected sanctuary for my wounded heart. The gym has been my cathedral, a place of healing and transcendence.
My right arm bears two symbols of strength and accomplishment. There’s a prominent tattoo of Mother Mary, a powerful emblem of triumph, earned from victories at competitions ranging from Miss Olympia Natural to Miss California. Just above her, there’s an Eskrima insignia, a tribute to my Black Belt, an emblem shared by revered Filipino Eskrima masters like Ciriaco ‘Noy Cacoy’ Cañete.
There have been days of sheer exhaustion when surrender seemed the easier option, when my body screamed in protest, and doubts clouded my resolve. In those moments, I’d turn to these indelible markers of resilience, drop to my knees, and pray for the fortitude to become formidable.
In the uncertain world of love and relationships, the iron stands as a steadfast symbol of commitment and consistency. It’s the reliable partner who’s never going to stand you up on date night, never going to ghost you, and most certainly, it isn’t going to leave you nursing a broken heart. The cold steel might be tough on your hands, but it’s warm in its loyalty. No matter what, the iron waits for you, arms wide open, ready for the next set, the next rep.
In the hallowed halls of the gym is where you’ll find me now, my gaze turned inward, laser-focused, and in the throes of training, the world outside ceases to exist. Victory isn’t just an aspiration; it’s an inevitable destiny.
Now, as the days start to warm and summer beckons, I can see the rippling mirage of the weight stacks in the distance. The Zeus Classic bodybuilding competition looms in September, and your sex doc, rejuvenated and recalibrated, is all set to dive back into the iron ocean. But this time, I return with more than just a deep tan and chlorine-scented hair. I bring back a sense of renewed balance, resilience, and depth — gifts from my sabattical.
Female bodybuilding transcends the superficiality of mere aesthetics; it is an empowering journey of cultivating strength, both physically and mentally. It’s not about fitting into society’s narrow definitions of beauty, but about embracing the power that surges through every fiber of muscle, every bead of sweat. It’s about standing strong, defiant, and unapologetically fierce.
Charting my journey one rep at a time, every sweat-soaked workout, every contemplation and epiphany will find its way to my blog — fitforlove.org. Stay tuned as I transform and triumph, live and unfiltered.
My pussy, my rack!
